


Let the Tide at Dawn Take Me

by Estivate



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Florid prose, M/M, Merloki, Poetic Pining, Sacrifices made, This is a story you think you know., fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:20:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26745019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estivate/pseuds/Estivate
Summary: Beneath the waves, all manners of fish would course through these waters. Many yet to be discovered by man, and one yet to be remembered.There was a far gone time when men owed their knowledge of seafaring to the chase and allure of merfolk, elusive to the point of madness, but upon return to land, they began to doubt their own accounts, weighing them against delirium and dehydration, and what remained of such fantastical imagery became relegated to myth.But like the conch that could transport its listener to the shore, therein the deep lay secrets more valuable than any treasure. Men would forever covet. Greed in their nature, lust in their eyes. It was for their own sake that they now kept to themselves, to extents dark and fathomless. There were depths along the ocean floor that would go longer uncharted than even the moon’s surface: here they could be safe.Or that was the idea. For even merfolk have their young, and among them are those born curious.There was a curiosity within one that was already too much like longing.
Relationships: Loki/Thor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51
Collections: Thorki Baby Bang 2020





	Let the Tide at Dawn Take Me

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness another year goes by so quickly. Gird your loins! Here we go.
> 
> But really, this event is always one to look forward to and a ton of fun. Special thanks to Rai and Elsa for running everything, and of course my artist Girlgoneblack - you were a dear and a dream to work with and I'm so glad we had this opportunity. 
> 
> (◦˘ З(◦’ںˉ◦)♡

It was a carefree wind that rode over currents towards the kingdom by the sea. Gently, from a southern source, and carrying with it all the momentum from the waves, blowing into white sails and crimson royal flags.

On the harbour is a boy, carried in the arms of his mother, reaching for the mermaid figurehead carved into the bow. It passes through the child's playful fingers, the barest of caresses, before flying over towns and fields. Of all nations fair, this was the fairest. 

Along its course, the wind danced through lively cobblestone streets, flirted with the imported fabrics of ladies' dresses, and mingled with the various scents of culture and civilization.

Being a wild force however, it could not stop to further admire, and in only a few hours pushed deeper North to guide the birds. It would travel all corners of the world this way, every moment fleeting, and so comparatively little of it over land. 

By the time it had blown over each of the seven seas, witnessed all there was once over, before coming back to see it all again, much would change. And that same child with his mother at the harbour would no longer be that cherubic boy, but grow to become the prince of the land, and taking a ship of his own to sail.

The zephyr which blessed his journey, knew him only wistfully before breezing away once more. From where he stood on deck to gaze over at the sea, he could still see the vessel's mermaid from the side, seemingly skimming the waters. He wasn't young enough to believe in such fairytales anymore. 

Meanwhile, beneath the waves, all manners of fish would course through these waters. Many yet to be discovered by man, and one yet to be remembered.

There was a far gone time when men owed their knowledge of seafaring to the chase and allure of merfolk, elusive to the point of madness, but upon return to land, they began to doubt their own accounts, weighing them against delirium and dehydration, and what remained of such fantastical imagery became relegated to myth.

But like the conch that could transport its listener to the shore, therein the deep lay secrets more valuable than any treasure. Men would forever covet. Greed in their nature, lust in their eyes. It was for their own sake that they now kept to themselves, to extents dark and fathomless. There were depths along the ocean floor that would go longer uncharted than even the moon’s surface: here they could be safe.

Or that was the idea. For even merfolk have their young, and among them are those born curious.

There was a curiosity within one that was already too much like longing. It worries them all. For it is of his type that the sea witch preys on. They tease him in tones that are just as much caution, telling him that between the surface and the deep, only something as wicked and crafty as Angrboda has survived to haunt these waters, longer than the whole of kingdoms above ground that have risen then fallen, and risen again. The oldest among them have seen it, having lived much longer than the scant human lifespan. To them, time flows slower in the less turbulent waters of the deep, and nothing spurs them to explore fresher currents. It is but a young merling’s game, they rumble, before retreating into their slumber.

But Loki has explored every reef and shoal. There is no exposed ocean floor that he has not surveyed, sometimes for scant baubles, but every item picked up and collected is one that loses its lustre. Until all that may satisfy is all that denied. At times he’ll whisper desire into the water and watch as the bubbles rise, following them upwards. So often the vastness of the expanse felt like the residue of a dream, and what’s to be reached for cannot be approached by outstretched hands. There is only him, bobbing in the water, and the far outflung shore with marks of civilization dotting its landscape. Then Loki would trace the contour of his hip, his streamlined tail, pausing underneath the navel. Daydreaming, wistfully, what it could be like to possess legs for swimming ashore.

_It’s dangerous._ His sire hisses angrily. Tail lashing at such foolish notions, threatening to sweep his youngest away. _You must never be seen._

_But what of the light?_ he begs. What can be said for creatures who live in the sun’s open glory, rather than flitting between its filtered rays? The water column, on a clear day, allowing him to chase its curtained warmth. For every other creature of the sea is bound to its own heat source. Them no different. Whether they scuttle or swim, colonize or migrate. From Mirovia to Tethys. East to West. The occasional centuries submerged man-made structure, with only Loki to bask in the architecture of stairs that no longer saw human steps, weaving between sculptures and columns. Brushing the sea grass away from the face of a marble stranger. Yet he could not bring himself to fear all that was said.

For he saw echoes of beauty and wanted to see more. In the hull of a sunken ship there was once an oil painting framed in gold, but the precious metal was not what caught his eye. In it was a subject regal and handsome, his expression one that seemed to look into the distance. He was dressed in strange adornments, portrayed possibly as a figure of significance, because Loki has seen the drowned bodies of men, and apart from their misfortune, there was little else to distinguish them.

But memory of that portrait was now only an impression, due to the cloth canvas having rotted away soon after. He sighs and sulks near the site. Aught but bleached bones and petrified wood. 

Then, overhead loomed a shadow. Large and slow enough to be a whale that he almost didn’t take notice, except the neighboring pod was away on its migratory route towards the isles, which meant that it had to be a ship instead. He followed at a distance, until the hours passed, transitioning to a moonless night.

The lights of the ship drew him in like a moth, while Loki sneaked near as silently as he could. As he swam closer, the music of sea shanties and merry, homebound sailors travelled through the air, and Loki wondered on the scarce comforts of those so far from where they’re meant to be.

Polaris was glinting in the sky, known as the north star. The sea was so still its surface was a black mirror. There was no longer any wind to carry them, and so the ship’s sails were drawn down. The scene inspired an ethereal interlude. Tranquil as death and as peaceful as the afterlife. For a few breathless moments, everyone felt small against the obsidian expanse.

A mostly superstitious breed, the ghostly stillness would not settle for long before they sought a distraction. The crew carried out a crate of fireworks, supposing whether they would be lucky enough to better gauge their distance from shore – and if not then at the very least it would be a celebratory splendor.

Hiding behind the ship’s stern, such strange objects described could not be reconciled with Loki’s imagination. Humans loved to invent all manner of items, but what could possibly allow them to accomplish such a thing? Between the before and after of incomprehension and discovery: the whistle of something set skyward – and then his whole perception becomes a burst of color and light. Sharing the radiance of fire with the volume of thunder and the suddenness of lightning. He is utterly captivated.

Each died as quickly as they flashed into being, but there was a show of many, and it was all more wonderful than he could possibly express to any of his kin who would never have a chance of believing him. It saddened him for the brief pause between one firework and the next, that he was alone in this experience, and he would not have another to share it with.

If he were more conscious of his position, he would’ve been worried about being sighted, but none of the others were looking over the water, with gazes cast to the same dazzling brilliance above. Loki only noticed it himself, as his eyes happened to follow along the descent of a dying spark, the face of one of them, more handsome than the rest. And then it became difficult to know where to settle one’s sight, though something suspiciously like recognition has, in his heart instead.

As the final florid arcs of flame burned out, they found themselves in the dark once more, only now the stars without. The clouds having rolled in upon them without notice. With it, all the suddenness of surprise from an unforetold wind that picked up from breeze to gust.

From where Loki remained hidden, he bobbed with how the waves churned. The way it buoyed his body and raised the ship with a heave. He has never known a storm’s oncoming to be so sudden. Neither, it seems, the men on deck. Even more bewildering was how there was no general direction to the wind, rather, it came from all around. Torn between how opening the sails would make them vulnerable to its vagaries, and how keeping them closed would be to sit in wait for the tempest.

They would not know it then, but it hardly mattered which they chose, but all the same, moment by pressing moment, as crew men rushed between this rope and that, there retained purpose in their urgency. Until the winds and waves became wilder and wilder – a leviathan of air and water. Then it turned to panic.

Panic as the ship begin to tip and oscillate. Panic as oil lamps were smashed inside multiple cabins, fire threatening the very foundations on which they staked their lives. Panic as it became clear that it would either be death by burning or death by drowning.

He watched helplessly as the horrific sight unfolded. Helpless, and doing as much as he could simply to keep up with the vessel. The waves formed vertical arches, clawing its way to their annihilation. Bodies began to hit the water, some from those who jumped, and others by men knocked off their feet like dolls. By scant miracle, Loki was able to keep within his sights the one of whom seemed determined not to give into despair. His arms strained to keep control of the helm, attempting to steer the impossible despite shattered spars and torn sails.

The storm took it only as a greater challenge, and became even more violent. Had he the sense to think it, he would’ve thought it toying with the final, remaining soul.

Only moments after, the inevitable dashed all mortal perseverance. His body joining all the rest.

Loki dove as fast as he could to intercept the figure, bubbles frothing all around from the force of the impact, knocking the human unconscious. Thankfully, their bodies would float, and that fact helped them as he dragged him upwards. Their heads broke the surface, and whatever mercy was left of the sea saw the waves calming as quickly as they ignited.

He swam for shore as streamlined as he could given the burden he was supporting with both arms.

Was it selfishness that motivated him to save this one over the rest? Loki can give no explanation for what he's done. His tail moves them in sinuous strokes while his hand searches for a sign of a pulse. Careful to keep the other's limp head above water.

The ship sank in the pitch black of night. He has no idea how long he's been swimming. It is dark still when he starts to tire, but he can now make out hard impressions against the gloom, growing closer. When his hip grazes the sandy shoreline, he nearly cries out in relief, and with the last of his upper body strength, lays the man down a small distance from the lapping waves.

The security of the ground beneath them feels surreal in the aftermath of calamity. Fatigue and grief stills him, and gratitude, in escaping death as they have.

His gaze fixes towards the gradual rise and fall of the man's chest. A reassuring sign. The thinnest outline of luminance now threads the horizon, but it's enough for Loki to get a proper look. He leans forward without touching, suddenly shy about being so close to a human for the first time.

There are details that the finest sculptures miss. The smoothness of the skin and faint pink of its hue, much less lustrous than mother of pearl, but more inviting in its softness. The man's hair dried gradually, its color returning, and the gilt shade of gold akin to the pinna's sea silk.

But then a faint stirring across that fair face startles him. Daybreak reaffirming its continuous revolution of time. By now the sun was a low, dull russet coin over the realm, the dawn mist of everything a haze. It's enough to remind him that he has forgotten his place and cannot stay. 

He lingers a final glance over the one he's saved. He has seen these features once before in a painting: the same brow and jawline, more grown and better defined, yet its angles softened by the light. So tempted as he is to brush away the grains of sand on one cheek and loose strands of hair at his crown – but hesitates. Instead, returning to the sea once more.

To be enclosed by the sea all around is a sensation as necessary as breathing. The way, homeward bound, is as natural to him as the ocean currents. Yet each wave of his tail taking him further out was to feel the pull of a reel extending longer and longer, threatening to draw him back. It hooked itself in his heart and felt like regret.

In the dark blue of the vast open pelagic, he is adrift with uncertainty. To imagine all that the ocean holds secret is to try and count infinity. What he’s done: it’s only one more to that innumerable quality. He is bred by the ocean, beholden by the ocean, and trapped by the ocean.

Her depths deeper than any abyss; her reach limited only by the circumference of the earth itself. It wasn’t imprisonment so much as loneliness. The same way so many stars dotted the night sky, and yet each were light years apart, but even stars shared a common realm. With him, the distance may as well be eternal.

_‘Forget him.’_ He thinks.

_‘Forget him.’_ He repeats.

_‘_

_Forget him.’_ He pleads, swimming blind.

Though these thoughts unspoken, the heart’s invocation is a desperate thing, and stronger than sense. He slows and pauses, gaze turning, to see twin lights moving and glowing in the water, gleaming in a most enticing manner. His eyes followed their odd movement: too alien to be of any creature capable of bioluminescence but too beautiful to ignore. It danced and distorted, coaxing further scrutiny, but always tempting out of reach.

And they led him down, down, down into the deep. Where the water became cold and dense with salt. Where having never experiencing sunlight, anything alive was more monster than creature. Where dead things settled and their remains embedded into the sediment.

There came the scent of something dead, though no longer fresh. Ahead was the carcass of an enormous whale shark, the majority of its meat already gone, but with enough yet left to devour – and set upon it, in writhing masses, where the snakelike forms of scavengers and parasites, the sounds of their rasping, cartilaginous mouths scraping against the bone. It made him recoil, but the lights led him onward, further and further inside the ribcage of the beast. Within the otherwise near total dark, they shone more beguiling the deeper they led him. Against his siren instincts, his distant awareness of the macabre surroundings, he was powerless to do anything except continue. To whatever they may be and whatever they reveal.

Within his head he heard a strange laughter, like that of a young girl’s. The lights flickered in synchronicity with its playful pitch, while at the same time the melody became louder. The lights began to calm and still, settling into the eyes of a face, until he was staring at one who could only be the sea witch herself: Angrboda.

Sensation came back to his limbs and he tried to get away, but coils of hagfish bound and twisted his arms and tail before he could make a ripple. His efforts in futility only seemed to amuse the demoness, who shook her head and pretended to be offended. 

_“Darr—rr—li—nn—n—ngg…”_

Rumors of Angrboda have been passed from generations in countless variations. She was the jilted mermaid lover of a human male, or else she was a nereid hunted down by them. She was the queen of Atlantis before the gods drowned her city, or else she was a virgin acolyte spoiled before her watery sacrifice. She was a seer gone mad by all the ways her words went unheeded. She was an unremarkable, fisherman’s daughter. A princess. A whore.

There is no consensus on who she is, except that she is a curse.

_“It’s been a long time, since I’ve offered one of your kind an audience…”_

A call, but it was more of an echo that came from within. He seems himself reflected in those eyes, and tries to look away. The sound, or the remnant of sound, chilled him like ice. Smooth whilst threatening to crack.

She croons. _"Darling. You mustn't... You'll be sorry you did, and miss something because of it. I know I couldn't. There is so much I have witnessed, so much that I've outlived, to the point where I wonder…"_

An inky feeler, metallic and skeletal slides by his face. _"I so often wonder what is left to offer me amusement. To whom I can offer my gifts. For you see…"_

Her voice curls, changing tenor, becoming seductive as her face looms. _"For I saw how you saved the life of your prince from the storm and the sea. The way you delivered him to safety. And even now as you pine for him, wishing for the ways in which you could know him. That he could acknowledge you."_

He wanted to deny it. All of it if it meant escaping. “What do you want?”

_"That is what you should be asking yourself, Loki.”_ If he hadn’t felt fear before, he felt it now. _“What isn't wretched is wasted, and would you have that? Your pure affections to forever suffer in silence?"_

“What are you… and how do you know my name?”

She balanced the tip of his chin on her finger. A gesture that somehow contained as much force as if she had his face gripped in her claws. _“I am what I am: the mistress of these seas since the beginning.”_ her answer resounding through flesh and tissue _“I know all there is to know in the heart of those with a will to desire. True desire. Pure desires.”_

There was a hush then, in which he felt the entanglements of hunger, rot, and decay surrounding them. These creatures, they were bottom feeders, and perhaps she was as well. Had his soul really sunk this low, as to become her next meal? When the whale shark’s remnants were gone, would even the bones remain to give testimony to its existence?

These surroundings, her distorted attributes, it all disgusted him. Defiant and brave, though small “There is nothing you can offer me.” For a moment, the muscled binding around his wrists loosened.

_“_ _Of course not…”_ lingering on that last syllable in something that was not quite a hiss or a chuckle, before continuing with the fateful words _"but I could make you human. In a body fit enough to be his companion. For a cause as wholesome as love."_

He was stunned, the realization that she knew exactly what was his heart harboured, and could grant it.

_"Think about it... To be by his side, hand in hand… See how he chooses to lead the life you protected, and bask in that gratitude, and together experience all that you have ever wondered."_ and as she spoke, her voice took on a summer warmth. A familiar face pulled to the fore of his mind, clear and cherished, that even with their separated worlds his resolve wavered thinking about him. What being was this? That could infiltrate his thoughts and mine his memories, to coerce it for her own gains? The question was as heavy on his tongue as the combined weight of every drop of water in the sea.

_“Am I not truly generous? Am I not powerful?”_ and as she spoke, her worlds imbued him with an energy he knew she was lending him, as conduit and witness. He felt the hot thrill of possibility through his limbs and to his very core. The sensation that if he only waved his hand, he could beckon the heavens down to maelstrom, or whisk these waters into a tempest. Anymore and he could become drunk on this feeling, but it receded as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling hollow in its wake.

_“I need only one thing as payment: your voice.”_ The fragile thread of rational thought remained enough to urge him to seize caution against those words.

It steeled him enough to shake him into clarity. Caused him to remember that for all of Angrboda’s power, she remained a hideous monster consigned to the fringes of the deep. He could imagine the dead, milky stares of those who drowned last night. The inadvertent pawns to her games.

“Let me go. I am as satisfied as I have any right to be.” Thinking of how he shall live a long and healthy life in these waters. The hagfish unknotted themselves and his tail was freed.

_“Will you be? Knowing that you turned it away?”_

It sweetens the taste, giving them the illusion of choice. Yet never has there been a fish capable of tearing its lips to escape so glittering a hook.

He should go, but he was stopped by that simple question. The way someone lowered the tall branch of otherwise unattainable fruit, towards your reach, dangling it.

His Prince.

Angrboda, who already knew his heart and mind, then surely also knew of this instilled longing he struggled to hide so quietly that doing so was already engulfing him in flame.

Could Loki, even without his voice, still not be able to find away to speak to the heart of his Prince? He did not want for kingdoms or riches or immortality. He only wanted the regard of one man. Even if it should be folly.

_“Then do we have a deal?”_ she offered, already reading his answer. There was a unique kind of terror in being taken in by her words, recognizing the poison laced in them but wanting it all the same.

“Yes.”

Her hands caressed the side of his face, teased the line of his throat, tracing down its column. As it did, the flared pain of something sharp dragging along his vocal cords, destroying them. Claws shearing not clean across but along the length. He gagged reflexively and wondered if this was how a fish might feel as it suffered on the hook.

She smiled down at him, calm and placid.

Then the pain increased hundred fold, and if he still possessed a voice, his screams would’ve resounded for miles. His tail, though he was too afraid to look down, hypnotized by her eyes above, felt as if it were being rent in half, split down the middle by hands that pulled each tail fin in opposite ends. He tried to trash but the nerves were being redesigned, reshaped, rerouted. Further amplifying the pain now the loss of oxygen. His gills sealed over by smooth skin, choking him off like the pressures of hands around his neck one finger at a time.

Only his upper body and arms obeyed him, and using them he fueled his panicking senses to swim upwards as fast as he could. Motions grasping in desperation as water filtered through his unwebbed fingers, losing all force of movement.

Yet he could hear Angrboda’s peals of laughter, the way it surrounded him as he frantically reached for the surface. Bubbling like a volcanic mouth from the vents of hell.

A dull white haze began to fill his vision as his senses started to fail.

His body feels light.

So light.

\---

It is surreal to wake up again, in comfort, when one had already given oneself up for dead. He’d woken up on the shores of his kingdom, not even far from the castle. Where the waves had been kind enough to send him home. The salt air never smelled so sweet or fresh as it did then that morning. The scene he had escaped from or been spared – it had taken a few moments to recollect, and when it did, the grief came back slowly.

When he had taken enough time to be grateful for his own life, he was momentarily given hope that any of his other men had also been delivered to land. But though he combed the beach, he found no signs of them. Defeated, he returned home, where the king and queen embraced him, fallen to their knees at the sight of him, kissing and weeping.

He is their only son and heir to Asgardia, their people prosperous and proud. 

In that sense, it could be said that his life was weighed in favour for the future, but Thor himself felt no more deserving of this fortune above any others. Other than chance, he cannot fathom why. It has only been a day, but he traces the shoreline still.

And that’s when, in the distance, he sees a figure. Hurrying to their side.

Upon reaching them however, he does not recognize their build or face. It is a stranger, but one in need all the same. For a body brought to shore by the waves, he is remarkably unscathed. There are no signs of injury or damage at a glance. In fact, it felt more the deliverance of grace, the nacreous dawn and the pale, immaculate boy lying on the sand.

Had there been another wreckage nearby? But even land swept survivors survived with the clothes on their backs. Thor had carried him in his arms back towards the castle with the other hastily wrapped in his cape. The servants sent a flutter, caught by surprise.

With all the efficiency royalty can afford, a room is prepared at once, and he decides to tend to him himself. The stranger’s presence and bearing a new and intriguing mystery. With his delicate features and dark hair, he is no sailor and perhaps foreign to these lands. Who is he and how was he lost at sea? Had he experienced the same calamity? What strange coincidence, truly.

There are so many questions he has for when he wakes.

\---

It’s only been three days.

Three days since he’s had a chance to make use of his new legs, and within that time his old self feels farther and farther away as if a different life entirely. Then again he supposes it was. Now he can feel the weight of gravity with every movement, and without flow. Is this how humans live? Such a strange stillness, punctuated by stopping and starting. Autonomy. As he had never know it.

Walking, as he quickly discovered, required concentration, balancing his vertical weight evenly when standing, and then with strides. The first time he attempted it when rising from bed, he had collapsed into the arms of his host, the very same prince – Prince Thor – who then smiled and assisted him like a parent helping a child taking its first steps. He can do it himself now without falling, but he is still as shaky as a fawn.

The first time the Prince had caught him, he had not given his thanks – could not. He mouthed the words and longed to voice them, but the stark silence was a reminder of what Angrboda had required as payment. There was a prolonged sadness in those blue eyes when the Prince must have realized something was wrong, but the kindness remained, and eventually the smile returned and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. How he savoured it.

Without a veil of water, everything was clearer, brighter, lovelier. There is so much to see, and he longs to see it all.

\---

Thor quickly discovered that there was a childlike wonderment in the youth, but sadly the boy was mute. All his questions died on his tongue, for within him there would be no answers. It only compounded the sense of mystery surrounding the boy and his circumstances. Within the palace, there were those who whispered, many superstitious, and saw his presence as a test from the sea of how he is treated while in their hands. The queen, his mother, by the recent relief of her own son returned, could not fathom the heartbreak of another parent made childless – and so he had to be cared for, until he could be returned to his family.

There are only two things Thor knows: he reckons they are similar in age, that he is fairer than any other boy Thor has ever seen, and that his name is Loki.

The last was a chance discovery only. The servants had been talking amongst themselves while in the room, and he had suddenly taken the speaker’s hand, nodding at something she said. They back tracked upon the syllable that caused his excitement. Like this, they stitched together the meaning of the sounds “low” and “key” to mean the boy’s name.

Thor had been pleased too when he heard: because if the boy had a name, that must mean he had a background and a home. As well as they would not need to temporarily assign a name or even worse, have no way of referring to him at all other than ‘guest’ or ‘stranger.’

For the most part, the servants had taken to him despite the…eccentricities. ‘More curious than a litter of kittens,’ he’d been described. It was true, but to his credit, Loki was never destructive or bad-tempered. He seemed to understand them when they cautioned him against things, but it was a little concerning some of the things he needed to be cautioned against at all.

The evening before, Loki had taken notice of the large candles in their holders. To call it fascination wasn’t accurate enough, but to Thor’s alarm (and thankfully he’d been there) Loki had tentatively reached out to see whether he could take ahold of the flame – nearly burning his fingers had Thor not intervened. The action startled him, Thor could tell and he was on the verge of anger – but one look into those eyes and he sensed the apology communicated in them, frustration dissipating as quickly as it came.

He had taken Loki’s hand and held it in his own, making sure he hadn’t hurt himself. After that, Thor saw Loki as his responsibility.

Then the days began to pass by, as Loki took more readily and enthusiastically to his surroundings, peering behind every corner, sweeping down every spiral staircase. Thor had lived in the palace all his life but was able to experience it anew through the eyes of a naivete. The two boys took to it all in a way Thor hadn’t since he was a child.

In the beginning he decided to escort him because surely someone so new could face the very probable risk of becoming lost, paired with the danger of being unable to call for help. Indeed, as they discovered the layout together, Thor realized there were enough rooms in this palace that had long gone out of use, marked only by the ghostly linen covered furnishings.

Loki would take Thor’s hand in his to guide him along, whilst other times Thor needed to run after him just to keep up – and how was it that the boy had become so swift on his feet? More than once, he would run his hands down the side of an ornate painting frame, trace the shapes of a particularly artful fixture, or stop to study at the gradations of a marble column, its venations like shallow ocean waves. There were instances when the same room would be visited multiple times, depending on the time of day – a chandelier hallway was among his favourites, but such favourites to beauty were judged by an eye that did not always line up with monetary splendor. A room with a large, paned window overlooking the courtyard was as much favoured, alongside the music room with an ostrich feather centerpiece.

Neither was it uncommon for Thor to find him again at times, a smile veiled in cobwebs and hands dusted. Such that he would have to brush it all off, while fussing over him, the amused glint in those green eyes, that emerald invitation which may have hinted to Thor that it was a game all along, but then the moment would pass, and there would only be his smile to go by.

Afterwards, when they would finally tire and Thor would keep him close to avoid losing him again, his breath would move the dark strands of hair on the other’s forehead, a hold that was tender and intimate for all that they were still strangers, it was an action that Thor only dared in private, for reasons even he wouldn’t understand.

Eventually, he’ll look back, wondering if it wasn’t all a reverie.

\---

He takes him out to town on a vervain scented, oriole singing, radiant morning. Thor takes a horse, riding out with Loki bracing him around the waist, curious at everything, the castle nestled in the curve of the seaside hill, leaving it further and further behind.

Loki saw for himself the world drawn in greater sprawl, between the pattern of thatched roofs and bricked chimneys. Each unit sheltering a family, and everyone going about their day living their lives. They rode within the green lea, passing by farmers and herds, animals that he craned his neck to get a better look at. Even now the air was earthy with soil and scent. He heard pleasant voices in every breeze, and in every bird’s note joy. If he were capable of humming, he would’ve mimicked them.

Within the hemmed in expanse of verdant pastures, they travelled deeper into where there was a city, where Thor led and introduced him to all manner of society. Asking the baker, the seamstress, the major, the schoolteacher – anyone they came across, whether they recognized him, or knew of someone by his description that had been missing. And one by one the folks people would either immediately shake their head, or peer at him for a closer look before coming to the same conclusion. Yet Thor carried on like a little boy escorting a stray cat, searching for its home.

Loki went along, with the whimsy that no matter where they went, Thor would not find his answer, yet had to try all the same.

One of them had surveying down his spectacles at Loki, while Loki peered back at his spectacles, fascinated by his distorted reflection, and asked “Is he simple?”

Thor, beginning to tire from his heartfelt effort that was turning up nothing, had been more than a little miffed by the implication, and made their dismissals, before pulling Loki along.

The two of them were dressed in simple, ordinary clothing, not wanting to call attention to his royal station and cause unnecessary formality or distraction. The man’s frankness was merely a result of what seemed like two suspicious adolescents being a bother. It seemed more and more likely that Loki was no native to the town either. For despite having gone up and down the whole area, not once did any street or square trigger Loki’s recognition. In return, no one would claim him either.

By now it was late afternoon, and the two of them beginning their riding back, but Thor’s horse was tired and hungry, and stopped by the apex of a hill slope, wanting to graze, much preferring the wildflowers to stable feed. Thor patted her neck and dismounted, before helping Loki do the same. He sighed to himself and decided to heed the mare’s cue to pause and enjoy the surroundings.

It was both as typical and as splendid of a summer evening as could be, with the atmosphere in a delicate equilibrium, such that drifts of cotton could stay as suspended as long as they did, travelling miles where the wind carried them upon the same height. Loki tries catching one, unsuccessfully, merely batting it away. The trail where he ventured sent up mists of pollen at a touch, and his calves, where the tall grass brushed, became stained with thistle milk and insect sap.

Thor quirked a small smile. That was the thing about Loki. He never seemed very aware of time and space. This isn’t to say he walked into walls nor navigated by dark, only that if there was something to observe, nothing between him and the subject of allure could be any true obstruction.

Loki looked backwards, and with that expression alone, beckoned him to follow. It was not the first time that Thor had the sense that he was being studied as much as everything else. It was reciprocated – not so much in words, no, but to each other, there was always an irresistible quality.

They walked until looking west, the town shrunk in the horizon into a speckled hamlet, while to the east, the castle summit looked like the setting of a fairytale.

They strode, hand in hand, without speaking, and somehow within this luminosity, speech would have been superfluous. They each had, in the other, a companion.

With Loki’s head leaning on Thor’s shoulder, they sat and gazed off into the distance, seeing how the faint summer mist drifted in diaphanous layers, like another realm, separated only by the daydreams of children wishing to be off on their own.

It was then that Thor broke the silence. “If I can’t find your home, what am I to do about you?”

Loki shifted and reclined, until he rested on his elbows, focus faraway as if in careful thought.

“You have a home, don’t you?”

To which he only responded by looking out towards the sea.

“Do you miss them?”

There was a delicate furrow to this at his brow, and he closed his eyes for a moment, as if pained. His head tipped gently downwards, and he withdrew his hand from Thor’s touch, suddenly drawn into himself.

What a mindreader may have read of the reaction, Thor only wish he knew as well, but in that moment of ruefulness, Thor knew his words had been understood.

Even if no one else could see it in Loki, or believe him when he said, Thor knew there was an intelligence behind those eyes that flourished as much as the flower field they laid in. He reached out to take back the other’s hand, squeezing in soft apology. Wordlessly, he made a promise that he would find a way to take care of him.

At his side grew a bunch of wild buttercup flowers. He picked one and thought of what his mother once told him about them. He broke one from its stem and rubbed the floret on the back of his hand. The divination was: if the spot where you would want to be kissed came away yellow, it meant you were in love. He passed on the buttercup’s lore to Loki, until his smile returned. The other boy tried it for himself, rubbing one against his cheek and having it come away leaving a sunny spot.

Though Thor, now older, knew the flower’s color would yield every time. Without guile, secret, or self defense. The outcome never changed. Rather, it was within the individual that picked the bloom, wanting. At the end of the day, it was only a game for children, but even children could yearn.

And would go on yearning.

Eventually, Thor led them back to their horse, but not before Loki departed with a bouquet full of buttercups.

\---

That same night: after the world’s edge seeped away, a storm broke over the land. Flashes forked over the clouds beyond his window, and he could not sleep. He is as a child, afraid of his first thunderstorm, without the amniotic protection of the sea to dull the sound.

Barefooted and silent, he crept from his guest room, keeping steady the candle and its light. The hallways were dark, and his human eyesight did not allow him to see nearly as well. Gingerly he continued, one foot in front of the other. Before long he finds the set of doors that led into the prince’s chambers.

Perhaps it was only by the fabric of the curtains or integrity of the walls, but here the storm sounds a fraction further. Here it feels safer.

He sets the candelabra down on the bedside and tries to nestle under the covers without disturbing its inhabitant but does so anyway. Thor rubs his eyes blearily at the boy, before moving over the make room.

“It’s alright.” He murmurs against a tuft of black hair. “I wasn’t really asleep.” For sleep didn’t come easily to someone who had so nearly met his end by the same winds and rain lashing now.

Head against his chest, he could hear the heartbeat beneath. Steady, and perhaps solemn. _‘Are you still afraid?’_ Loki wonders.

When Thor closed his eyes, his body became seized by the sense that it would fall with the creeping cold that was the water tugging at you. Yet this time he was softly cradled in his bed, within the castle, and holding close someone who had been a consequence of the previous storm as much as the tragedy that preceded him. A fragile feeling stretched across his heart, between one long exhale and the next, that was probably peace. Waiting, counting, yet somehow it held.

“Don’t be afraid.” he whispered to the dark, for the both of them. _‘I’ll find a way to keep you safe.’_

Not a moment passes where Loki doesn’t miss his voice. He’s become use to the silence. Can better appreciate the sounds of the world in all its aural novelty: the faint crashing of the waves, the rumbling thunder and raindrops, the rhythm of two breathing bodies next to each other. Even then there is so much unsaid. If he had the means to read or write, he would trace his words out against the skin, mouth them against open lips.

All this however. It’s more than he ever dreamed.

Even now, closer than he’s ever been, with only two thin layers of cloth separating them, Thor’s warmth somehow does not hurt in the same way staring into the sun does, or lingering too close to an open flame. In daylight when he smiles, that same warmth emanates from the eyes, the timbre of his voice when he speaks, to be offered by the curve of a hand, and leading to an embrace.

For now it’s more than enough.

The candles burn low and burn themselves out before morning.

\---

The old king was a regal and stately keeper of the crown, and each morning started another day with his family at the table. His fair queen beside him, and his son, god yet be willing, the crown prince near at hand. Every so often there would be a guest, a noble man or an envoy, but matters of state were not so urgent these latest years with the kingdom so at peace. If instead a stranger with no bearings or a visitor with no titles were to grace their table, foreign and mute, King Odin could allow it.

By his age there were few matters of priority, but today he would be announcing one of them, setting down his knife and fork, and cutting off what his son was about to say. Apart from an elixir of youth – there was only one thing he wanted to arrange while he was still alive.

He took his queen’s hand in his, and made a deep, considered sigh. “Thor, you’ve been of age for some years now. Handsome and beloved by all, your mother and I have let you have your freedom, but it is time that you choose a wife, and so we shall have a ball. Tonight, you must select from all those in attendance.”

The news quite shocked his son into silence, but the king, feeling the weight of age more and more keenly, as well as pondering upon his own mortality, was determined to see his line assured and settled. His son had been filial in all ways but this.

“Father—”

But as he reached for an excuse, he found that he had exhausted all of them before. Did he think he could avoid this forever? He saw the expectancy in his father’s expression and the excitement in his mother’s eyes.

Had he noticed Loki then, he would’ve seen abject misery.

Who quickly found himself without appetite. _‘It is time that you choose a wife.’_ How could he forget? That this was how humans bonded and formed families. A husband and wife, a marriage marking a union. All the ways in which he fell short of the feminine standard – the King’s decree echoed in his mind like a curse.

But it was Angrboda who fashioned this form.

_‘I could make you human. In a body fit enough to be his companion. For a cause as wholesome as love.’_

And it was Angrboda who cheated him. In his mind he could hear the ringing of her laughter in his stolen voice.

He rushes to his feet, running out of the hall. Away from the castle, towards the shores.

\---

There’s a new pain to running which he hasn’t discovered until now. It starts in his heart, pulsing staggered counterpoint against the rushing pace of his legs. Like his core is at odds with this body. He needs to remember to breathe and take in air, as opposed to air integrating with him from movement alone.

Legs are poorly designed to take in the repeated shock of impact against the ground. He feels like the opening between them should travel up his body, fracturing the rest of him in half, had he not known when to stop.

Reaching the soft sand of the shore and coming to where the water laps, the steady rhythm of the waves remain unaffected by their lone visitor.

Voiceless, he cannot call her. Tailless, he cannot seek her. So he must beg on all fours in the shallows, knowing that she is watching.

She answers. 

In her own way. Encroaching in the waters like ink and oil. It stains his skin the way paint does on paper, and continues to seep into his view until the rest of the world is blotted out. Then, it’s as dark and cold as it has ever been.

_“It was different before you had a human heart.”_ The darkness pulses around him, pitying and malignant. Her voice sibilant and smoky. _“It’s not only that you want him. You want him only to yourself.”_ And there’s disdain in her tone. She understands human vice and now she thinks of him no better than the rest.

It shimmers in the murk, and when she speaks again it’s with his stolen voice.

_“I can make you the most beautiful woman to have walked this earth. If you think that is what it will take…”_

He can sense the danger, but he can also envision how her words may yet come to pass, and therein lies the fatal pleasure of succumbing. Thus, she spoke in his dulcet tones, telling him of his own desires, and rapt, he listened, then breathed them in.

_“…but there is a price. There is always a price…”_

He shuddered at the way it was whispered with such heartlessness and affection. Knowing already, that he would pay it.

_“From now on each step you take will be as if you are walking on daggers…and it must be…that before the next sun rises, he must want you for himself…or else….”_

He wondered, in all of her existence, whether she’d ever been denied her meal.

_“…your soul is forfeit.”_

He remembers how she initially lured him: the way an anglerfish lures its prey.

_“But…”_ with formless lips she smiled, savouring every act of hubris to come _“…if he does not, you can spare yourself: coat this dagger with his hearts’ blood, and you will be released. You will be returned to what you were, whole and original.”_

The cold steel of the metal that formed in his hand gleamed like that of a snare still open in wait.

Did he ever consent to her terms, or had she already decided to force them on him? He heard the words and yet felt himself numb. Selling his soul, he had made himself her plaything. The way a cat plays with a mouse. Should he have struggled in vain all the same?

He expected pain, like the first time. When she had sliced his lower end in half. But instead he sensed himself unravelling, strand by strand before being remade. His thoughts being the first to go. It was not so very different than falling asleep.

Dreamless but sensate, there was only the cold and the dark, as it always had been.

Until it was only the dark. 

\---

Dusk arrived on a hush as one holding its breath in anticipation of the ball, as every girl within the kingdom and those from nearby made their way towards the gates. All paths leading to Asgard’s castle were met with swirls of wide skirts as they floated up the numerous steps of the inner staircase. Girls and women gathered inside, a mixture of virginal modesty, aristocratic hauteur, and youthful grace.

Inside was a splendor so seldom seen to outsiders, and to them the sight conferred the fantasy of a priceless jewel case shut off from the rest of the world. The ballroom was golden in every hue and form; smooth on cornices, floral on panels, and thick on columns. The gilding was not gaudy as description might suggest, but tastefully muted, so as to allow beauty to be seen and cost forgotten. Ephemeral flowers, luscious drapery, chandeliers that defied the stars. Each maiden’s heart beat with the furtive hope that chance, fate, and fortune would be theirs. On this night of night when dreams may come true.

Before it all stood one figure near to the throne. Disquiet settling in him rather than romance. Dressed to the nines and suited for the occasion. For himself he felt no nervousness, for that would imply excitement, of which there was also none, but his thoughts drifted forlornly to the scene that morning. In their family’s earlier years, he knew his mother had wanted other children, with expectant whispers of another son. Any pressure he felt must weigh double on the shoulders of his parents, and for them he would be faithful to his duties tonight, but if by circumstance they would be open to the idea of adopting Loki… for he had never grown out of the desire to have a brother…

However, the opportunity had slipped away and been superseded with news of this event. Even more worrisome was how Loki had then gone missing. Earlier a servant had tried to reassure him that they would keep an eye out for the boy, but night was near, and he was still not found. Thor didn’t know how he’d summon the mood for dancing.

The beginning notes of a waltz started. With a handful of young soldiers and handsome guards the first to take to the floor the nearest charming girl in their hands. The gathering crowd, with which he still felt no urge to partake in the festivities, seemed to him more and more unreal. Surreal. As if they were merely figures in a play from a scene of a lapsed memory. Suddenly he wanted very badly to be away from here. To go find someone dear.

Thus he was torn between duty, which kept him where he was, and guilt, which killed any levity.

It was then that he saw, within the masses, a gradual parting, for someone who was making their way forward. The ambient buzz of the ballroom turned to sharpened interest. All those in attendance instinctively felt, at that moment, like they were in the presence of true royalty.

Her bearing could be the result of nothing else, and she walked, not with the slack jawed, wide eyed awe of all those before her, but with the surety and stateliness of one entering their own home. In the wake of those she left behind, never sparing a glance, was a stunned wave of those who witnessed what they saw and craned their necks to see once more. Regal and statuesque, her whole figure emanated the invincible calm of a woman confident in her own beauty.

The floor tiles echoed her steps as she approached their prince, gliding like a swan over a frog-filled lake. Like everyone else, dazed upon first impression. His mind scrambled for a name, for surely he remembered those of nobility whom he could match her likeliness with – but he could not. As she neared, he glanced over her features: her skin as pale as ivory, her mouth like two rose petals, her face as fair as a goddess’, all of it framed in gentle waves of raven hair.

But it was her eyes that caught him last. Under lashes so thick and dark that it almost disguised their perilously attractive gaze.

His indifference all evening thawed into appeal, caught on the familiar mesmerism of green eyes. Such that when she stood before him, extending her arm in a perfect arabesque, he could not prevent himself from kissing her hand, and led them to the dance floor.

She did not give her name, and he, forgetting all his manners, did not ask. Instead they moved in perfect tandem, his hand on her waist and an arm from both outspread with fingers interlaced. It was a curious, natural harmony. They were quickly the envy of the room. Already they were the most moving sight: a perfect young couple, for all earthy perceptions, were already in love. Completely submerged in each other, blind to the defects of the world around them, as it all fell away.

Like this, he could finally hold Loki with the tenderness and infatuation that was allowed before the eyes of others. Like this she could be guided through his motions with the borrowed grace of all things beautiful destined to die. Like this she felt herself held in the mutual clasp of their bodies song after song, communicating what words need not.

She danced through the pain, towards completion, with all the elegance of fate and fairytale.

Other couples passed in waltzes and whirls, but there was no hope for comparison. The other women resigned themselves to their ordinariness, and either resolved to still enjoy the night in the capacity they could, or otherwise retire early and not delude themselves with false hopes and sore feet.

Finally, at the ending strains of the music, when the space between pieces Thor felt himself tiring, he held her in a dip, and exhausted, she didn’t possess the strength to lift herself from it. He helped her up. With dawning awareness, realized that the ballroom had been left to only the two of them for some time now.

But the hour was too late to send any proper lady home, and looking around, there was no entourage or chaperone to escort her. So, he swept her into his arms, thinking that she ought to stay the night, whereupon he could introduce her to his parents tomorrow.

Ascending the grand marble staircase, the first set of doors he came to had been… the door had been left ajar, and inside he saw only an empty bed with a vase of buttercups to the side. It was not his intention to let her stay in the same guest rooms of their previous occupant, but she made a motion to be let down, and was already entering.

She passed the flowers slowly, fingers lingering over the petals, beginning to wilt slightly. The room was suffused with a fragrant sadness for the one who was not there.

She guided him towards the bed, taking the sides of his face in a caress and bringing down his mouth upon her own. Breathless and deep, yet there was an urgency to the act he could not understand. The moonlight scattered off the pearls in her hair, and the whisper soft silk of her dress slung so broadly across her shoulders that all it would take was a breeze for it to slide off completely. Her eyes were a clear invitation.

The image being what it was…better men than he would have succumbed, and had this had been any other room…if she had been in any other bed…

Somewhere, out there, while he had been enjoying himself all night, Loki was lost and alone, and the impropriety of the entire situation slammed back into him. This stranger, as irresistibly beautiful as she was, Thor doesn’t even know her name. He swallowed, deeply ashamed, “I’m sorry my lady, but I cannot dishonour you like this.”

He rose up and left, before his selfishness could cause even more damage, while she desperately tried to catch his eye. His hand. But it was too late.

\---

She had explored these halls in a previous body. She traces the path from here to him. She feels each step as a knife driven into her foot, as surely how it might feel to be driven into the heart. The pain was excruciating.

The brass candelabra felt less heavy than the dagger. As if she herself were the scale. One arm raised to keep the light steady. The other lowered.

Contrary to dark intent, it remained a lovely night, brilliant and studded with stars. The castle remained quiet, and she moved soundlessly within. Slipping through the doors and nearing Thor’s bedside, it was a discordantly serene image that greeted her inner turmoil, brittle and delicate. She set the candle down and settled at the edge of the mattress, her weight causing the surface to shift, but her prince remained still. How she wanted to kiss him again.

The flame’s light, small and dim as it was, flickered and illuminated the blond strands of his hair and eyelashes. Like burnished gold, they framed a face never more handsome as it was now in sleep. Gazing upon it, she felt the same way men did in prayer, prolonging the stolen moment as morning steadily scrolls nearer. She wondered, whether in coming this far, if she would be compelled to act through the anguish of her situation, the humiliation of his rejection, or the heartbreak of her deceit.

But she could not.

All she felt, all he had ever shown Loki, was kindness and affection.

All that remained was to extend a farewell, to pretend whisper all the things she could never tell him, until it brimmed over and time could be stayed through ardor alone. Though she knew it would not, so she breathed only what mattered most.

Then, like the mystery she was upon arriving, a mystery she remained as she left. A spectre of the visitor she had been.

\---

Outside it was desolate.

Where so many guests only hours before had returned home along the castle path, she was alone. Without a crown to anoint her head or a ring to bind her love. Though no one who had been part of the audience at the ball would recognize her now, the way she stumbled and wavered on two feet – a far cry from the graceful and proud paragon of the pageantry.

At least a dozen times she fell on one knee or both, and each time she feared she would not be able to rise again, but somehow found the strength to persist. Breathing laboured, muscles weary, she would not rest until she made her way to the shore. She could smell blood with the cold pierce of air at each lungful. The soles of her feet were slippery with it, and it made the journey harder. It seemed to her a fair price to pay – bought and paid for in full – for each perfect moment lived.

She does not clutch to her pride as a tattered thing, except in this, for she has no regrets.

She stopped when she lacked the energy to go any further, when the water level reached her hip, when the sand beneath her steps cushioned the pain, but then she felt the sand too, as grains clustered, before lining up, one by one, passing unceasingly, through the neck of an hourglass. She has never felt the hot trail of tears against her cheek like this. The way it scalds without dissolving. The taste not unlike the sea.

Her hair fell down around her shoulders, her fine dress dragged behind her. All of it heavier than the red desire of dawn, rising on the surface of the ocean like the light caught on the edge of a blade.

Gently, the pain began to ebb away with the tides. Perhaps something at last, had come to an end.

She had expected her soul to sink down to where Angrboda lay in wait, but found itself drifting upwards, taken up by the incoming southern wind, the sweetest of all her sisters. In those final moments of human perception, she finally felt freed.

Over and across all lands, they soared beyond the horizon and chased every speck, rushing and receding into the distance, into the past. Once, upon a familiar shore, she slowed down to playfully tussle and lovingly caress the face of a lone figure. Hearing his sighs as he searched for someone he would never find.

The withered yellow blossoms in his hand lost their petals one by one in the breeze, and then he was left with nothing. Nothing but an old rusted dagger washed up on the sand.

**Author's Note:**

> When I said The Little Mermaid Fairytale AU, you knew it was going to be Hans Christian Andersen's version right? Well... easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. If you're aching, I hope you'll forgive me on the merit of my writing. 
> 
> A penny or two for your thoughts and comments and I'll consider myself a wealthy girl~
> 
> Follow at the artist's [twitter](https://twitter.com/agirlgoneblack) or the author's [twitter.](https://twitter.com/Estivate9)


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